


Tables In the Air

by SpellsOfScarlet



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, Powerful!Wanda, Prom, Teen!Wanda, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wanda and Peter are besties, X-Men in the MCU, Young and In Love, tony makes excellent dresses, wanda finally gets to go to prom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:54:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23397355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpellsOfScarlet/pseuds/SpellsOfScarlet
Summary: “Where’s Peter?”“I don’t know...” answers Tony. “I’d have sent Happy to pick him up, but I thought he needed a bit of space. Something about the entire building that was dropped on him the last time he went to a dance...”Wanda shrugs, flippantly.“Haven’t we all been crushed by a building? It’s twenty-twenty. He better not be late.”OR: Wanda and Peter go to prom (and Wanda is a part time X-man  (and Wanda and Jean are adorable) )
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Wanda Maximoff & Avengers Team, Wanda Maximoff & Natasha Romanoff, Wanda Maximoff & Peter Parker, Wanda Maximoff/ Jean Grey
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	Tables In the Air

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I hope you’re all safe (and preferably not going insane just yet). I’ve had this idea for a while, and a few people have asked me to write a prom one shot... so here u go! Hope u enjoy! <3

“You good?”

Wanda blinks... slowly, and then again. In the mirror opposite, the sparkly creature copies the broken movement: she’s unnaturally smooth, her eyes glittering, and her entire being appears to shimmer with something otherworldly. Wanda nods, in response, and the enchanting creature mimics.

The material spilled over her legs- almost definitely creasing, but one afternoon hasn’t been nearly enough time to instil that level of ladylike etiquette- is softer and lighter than silk, as if it’s been spun from clouds. The dress fits her perfectly, though she’d refused to attend any fittings. Looking at the reflection, now- at  _her_ reflection- it’s quite simply the most beautifully crafted piece of clothing she’s ever had the privilege of laying eyes upon.

It’s a lot, all of it.

Natasha seems to understand this, as innately as she appears to understand the intricacies of everything in this world. She’s exceedingly gentle, as she combs the tangles from Wanda’s hair, and applies all sorts of shimmery powders. She whispers silly Russian jokes, until she sees Wanda smile.

It’s strange, that she’s wearing a dress. It’s strange that her hair is combed smooth, and it’s strange that her eyelashes are long and dark, and it’s strange that she’s going to a prom. It’s all been fun and games, wriggling under Natasha’s perfect, extensive application, and asking stupid questions about the point of this entire ordeal- until she caught sight of her reflection.

It’s a lot.

“Barton is  so going to break,” Natasha declares, voice louder now. She’s smiling with something close to triumph, as she deftly twists a piece of hair, fixing it securely behind Wanda’s head.

And just like that, the trance is broken.

“You think?”

“Oh he’s a  _baby_ . The second he sees you? Floodgates.”

“Do you think Friday will take photos for blackmail, if I ask her?”

Natasha freezes dramatically then, and clasps a hand over her heart.

“Oh Red, you’re going to make  _me_ cry...”

“Don’t even start.”

Natasha laughs, lightly; she makes to get up from the bed, but for a moment does nothing but stand and admire her work, with a rare smile that Wanda knows is sincere. 

“For real,” she says then, “You look beautiful, Wanda. You deserve all of this, you know.” 

It’s in unprecedented moments like these, where reality seems the furthest away. After everything she’s been through, in Sokovia, then Hydra, and Novi Grad, this entire notion is nonsensical. 

“I’m proud of you.” 

Wanda doesn’t quite know what to say, to something like that. 

They’d been planning this entire ordeal for months, all of them. Somehow,  someone \- she wholeheartedly blames Bucky- had discovered the invite that Xavier had given her, which she’d promptly torn in half and thrown in the trash. Upon reflection, it had been a fatal lapse in judgement. Next time, she’ll remember to burn the evidence to fine ashes. 

In a matter of minutes, though, the damage had been done, and the world’s Avengers had transformed into a gossiping, glittery mess of beauty pageant moms. It’s been the only topic of conversation in the tower for months: what colour the dress should be, how she’d arrive, which shoes she’d pick, which _side_ she should  _part_ her _hair_ . They’d been obsessed. Only Rhodey and Bruce, who’d been both sober, conscious and American enough to experience their own school dances, were anything close to rational.

Wanda liked to dream, during these torturous hours, of how the press would react if they ever discovered that Iron Man made for an excellent fashion designer, or that the Winter Soldier offered wonderful advice about complementary shades of eyeshadow. It was an escape, picturing the headlines, and the worlds deadliest assassins’ reputations swirling down the drain...

For the longest of times, she’d been absolutely, irrefutably adamant that she was not going to any stupid prom. Not a single fibre of Wanda’s being desired to be beautified, and thrown into a glamorised, pre-school, hormone-fuelled party. Her twin brother was dead, and her childhood, marred with brutal scenes of torture, was as good as buried alongside him. She was the Scarlet Witch, the last standing Maximoff, and, for the _final_ time, she was _not_ going to a stupid, tacky high-school prom!

“ _Damn_ , Maximoff- is this what you look like without the eyeliner?” 

Wanda stands in the doorway of the kitchen, looking both spectacular, and as if someone has told her she’s got three hours to live. Sam’s time is beginning to look a little short, too.

“You don’t scrub up half-bad,” chimes in Steve, in his cocky Captain’s voice. His eyes, however, are suspiciously shiny. She realises then that the rest of them are stood in some broken, silent line, gaping like fish, as though someone has stolen their ability to function as humans.

“What’s the matter with all of you?” She asks, half-joking.

She grins and looks over at Tony, for help, but then falters when she notices the way his eyes, too, are watery. 

“See,” Natasha says, smugly; she gently brushes past Wanda’s shoulder, phone in hand, “They  _all_ broke.”

“I didn’t think Stark had emotions,” she whispers, loudly. 

“Trust me, I don’t!” He interjects. “It’s always you damn kids, I don’t know what you do to me.” She watches in something like awe, as the unbreakable man wipes his eyes hurriedly, muttering some meaningless curse about his emotions being manipulated. 

Finally, though, Clint collects himself enough to utter a few of his own chosen words. There’s something palpable, in the emotion radiating from the man: Wanda cannot help but feel the intense admiration and love bouncing off of him in waves, and it roots her to the spot. He was the one, in Novi Grad. He was the one who believed in her. He was the one for whom Pietro gave his life to save. 

Now, a single tear- of overwhelming pride, and care, and something she’ll never comprehend- slips down his face.

“Oh my goodness, Red. You look...” his voice trails off, as he’s overcome by his emotion.

“Beautiful!” Bruce offers.

“Stunning!” Drawls Bucky, with a smooth wink. She hopes he isn’t under the impression that she’s forgotten how she came to be in this mess in the first place.

“Less emo than usual!” Natasha elbows Sam, sharply.

“Grown up,” Clint whispers.

A moment passes, where she just stands, and blinks; watches, suspended in disbelief, the pride that beams from his face. “Look at you two, man,” says Sam, then, “You’re adorable.”

“You’re such a dad,” Rhodey exclaims, nudging Clint. For the first time, Barton doesn’t even joke about defending himself. He was the one, who started it all...

She shakes herself out of it. She isn’t about to let herself cry in public today. Especially not with this mascara.

“I am not adorable. When’s Peter getting here?”

_How long do I have to stand here awkwardly whilst you all struggle to express your emotions?_

Of course, the minute after she’d decided to show up to Xavier’s little do-up was spent peer pressuring Peter into going with her. There was never a chance that she was standing in a corner, alone- so she’s dragging Peter to stand in the corner by her side.

A smile flits over Clint’s face, as he catches the sentiment of her question.

“I don’t know...” answers Tony. “I’d have sent Happy to pick him up, but I thought he needed a bit of space. Something about the entire building that was dropped on him the last time he went to a dance...”

Wanda shrugs, flippantly.

“Haven’t we all been crushed by a building? It’s twenty-twenty. He better not be late.”

He’ll be okay, when he gets here. She’ll make sure of it. 

Peter soon arrives in a blur of corsages and low whistles: Tony fixes his tie, and smooths his curls, and forces them both in-front of the windows for photos, and then in the yard, and then again in-front of the car. Wanda doesn’t think she’s ever smiled as much in her life. By the time she’s free to leave, they’re already 20 minutes late, and the muscles in her face are twitching with disuse. 

“You look beautiful, kid,” Clint presses into the top of her sleek new hairstyle as he bundles her into the car, and she tries, in that moment, to wordlessly convey all of the emotions she wishes to express to him before he manages to let go and open the door. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Knock ’em dead, _kroshechnyye ptitsy_ ,”Natasha says, eyes twinkling. As ever, Wanda receives the sense that the woman knows something that Wanda hasn’t yet realised for herself... 

And then the black-tinted windows roll up, and Clint’s tear-stained face becomes a blur upon the horizon. After a second of apprehension, Wanda wastes no time in hurriedly digging a charcoal pencil from her clutch. 

“I could’ve put money on that,” Peter groans, as she begins to darken her waterline. “I  _should’ve_ put money on that. May was going to bet me ten bucks!”

“Am I that predictable?” She asks, as she smoothly lines the corner of her eye.

“You have a brand, and you keep it up. I respect that.”

She smirks. “What exactly is my brand?”

“Angst.”

“Do I look like I know what that word means?”

“Don’t worry about it, it’s the vibes that count.”

In direct threat to the black she’s just carefully applied, she rolls her eyes. 

“Your stupid vibes are getting in the way of my vibes,” she announces. “You can’t smile like that. It ruins my  _brand_ .” 

“Just wait ‘til we get in there. I’m gonna make you laugh, and everything. In front of  _all_ of them.”

“You would never.”

“Even... what’s her name, again? Janice? Jeanette? I forget...”

A red glow of warning lights her eyes in threat, but Peter’s been subject to her intimidation trick far too many times previous, and he just laughs. 

“Don’t forget how much you owe me.”

“How could I?” 

“You know how much this proves I love you, right? I can’t believe you’ve got me going to a stupid dance.”

“You’ll enjoy it, when you get there.”

“I feel like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

It seems like hardly any time at all has passed, before the car rolls smoothly to a halt. She feels the slight crunch of the gravel underfoot, and her heart flutters, just a little. There’s a moment where they both sit, unmoving, absorbed in their own anxieties. 

“Charge doubles if you sit there for another minute,” threatens a gruff voice. Peter breaks from their trance, and scarpers. 

Swiftly, he makes his way around the car, and opens her door. “Miss Maximoff, m’lady?” Peter offers, his arm extended in gesture. 

After a numb second, she takes it. He steadies her, as she stumbles out of the vehicle- ever the picture of elegance (and crushing, overwhelming nerves). Peter’s head tilts, in one final  _you good?_ ,  and she nods reassurance, swallowing down all of her thick apprehension. She smiles. 

“Lookin’ good, kid!” Happy calls from behind the wheel. Grinning, Peter shoots him a thumbs up as he slowly turns the car, and backs away down the drive. 

Its...  _beautiful_ .

Xavier’s truly outdone himself. Strings of silvery lights hang in the trees like fallen constellations, forming a starlit walkway towards the double doors. There are even more lights twined around the handrail; sprigs of snowy, un-wilting wild flowers twist softly around the edges, tied with tiny shimmering ribbons, and bits of pearly thread.

What’s that silly, snooty philosophical thing Charles had said, once, about money and beauty? Wanda can’t quite remember, but she knows he sounds like a real hypocrite right about now.

“Peter?” She asks, breathless.

“Yeah?”

“What do we do if we’re the only ones dressed like this?”

There’s a pause, and a faint echo of upbeat music reaches their ears, carried along in the breeze.

“You can manipulate reality, can’t you?”

Her own smile catches herself entirely unaware.

“On a good day.”

“C’mon,” he says, taking the first step forwards, “We’re already fashionably late.”

As they near the great entrance, the joyful sounds from within become much easier to catch. Wanda considers, for a moment- as someone laughs, loudly- using her magic to reach in, and scope out the area, but she quickly shakes herself out of the thought. Inside,  they’re mutants, too. Jean would definitely notice the scarlets presence. 

If they  are the only ones dressed so fancy, she’ll find out right as she walks through these doors- and by then she’ll simply have to alter the fabrics of the timeline. What is there to lose?

Besides her, Peter reaches out to twist the door handle- but an erratic flash of built up scarlet snaps out like a tendril, and snatches at the handle. The look he gives her as he turns around, slowly, inspires a hysterical giggle. “Sorry,” Wanda whispers, as the door swings open, “I can’t control it!”

“That’s good to know!” Peter exclaims over-eagerly, and then mouths the words ‘ _weapon of mass destruction_ _’_ , shrugging sarcastically.

She’s still laughing, as they stumble their way through the long corridor, all the way down to the grand functions room.

“For some reason, I’m not worried about being over-dressed anymore,” says Peter, his eyes caught upon the enormous gold-edged paintings that hang above the hallway.

“It’s a school,” she reminds him, “Not everyone here is used to the riches. Hardly anyone is, except maybe the Professor.”

“I can see why you love it here.”

She snorts.

“How long was it that you refused to sleep in your bed for at the tower? One month?  _Three?_ ”

“It’s too soft! It is a waste of money!”

Peter scoffs, grinning. “All this time you’ve been complaining about coming here, and it isn’t the people that bother you. They probably  _fold your towels_ , or something else horrific.” 

They do. She refuses to touch them. 

Peter straightens the cuff around his wrist compulsively, and holds out his arm again. “Is it safe for me to open this door?” 

Wanda shrugs, amused. “Why don’t you find out?” She tries very hard to hide how much she concentrates on keeping the scarlet magic from leaping outwards again, and this time he manages to move forwards without injury. The warm, lively atmosphere of the party greets them both like an embrace, and they walk in arm in arm, enchanted.

If Wanda had been in awe of the decorations outside, she cannot comprehend how magical the hall looks. Above them, there are even more lights, delicately strung from the centre of the grand ceiling; they arc outwards in an iridescent, shimmering projection, like a firework. At the far side of the room, there are tables laden with food: tiny little sandwiches piled upon silver platters, bowls of gleaming punch, and great slices of cake, nestled in ornately folded napkins.

A scattered rainbow of shimmering dresses lights the hall in every colour imaginable; there are the girls Wanda trains with, stood together in the corner; there’s the group of boisterous teenage boys- the one Pietro would surely have fitted perfectly amongst- in suits coloured navy and varied shades of Forrest green; and many other kids she’s never had the chance to meet before, across her scheduled visits.

“Wanda!” Charles exclaims, coming up to greet them. The headmaster himself sports a very elegant black tux- the sort with the bow tie, made especially for important men like himself- and a very childlike grin. “You look lovely! I’m so glad you came.”

“You sound surprised,” she jokes, and he chuckles.

“If I’m being honest, I never thought they’d be able to get you in a dress.”

“Natasha is a scary woman.”

“Indeed,” he jests, eyes widened in a comic expression of fear. He turns to Peter then, holding out his arm to shake. “And who would this young man be?” 

“Peter Parker, sir,” Peter chirps, hesitantly taking the hand and trying not to crush it. At her side, he’s rather tense; Wanda knows that he can sense the intensity of the power radiating from the calculating man before him- she was rather taken aback too, the first time she experienced it.  _Star-struck_. 

“Hello, Peter Parker! Please, call me Charles. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, sir.” 

Xavier laughs, warmly. Wanda takes great pleasure in the surprise he feels, at the stark difference between herself and the friend she’s brought along. 

“I do hope you enjoy the night,” he says, “You’re always welcome at this school- if you manage to disregard the many horror stories I’m sure Miss Maximoff has relayed to you, I’m certain you’ll find it most pleasant.” He winks, and Peter smiles, if a little uncertainly. 

“No sign of Mr Lehnshurr, then?” She asks,mirthfully. 

“I feel confident he’s avoiding you, as always.”

One of the first things that Wanda had noticed, on her very first visit to this place, was the man they call Magneto. The majority of the super-powered people here made themselvessuffocatingly sweet and inviting- but something about her presence seemed to thoroughly unnerve Mr Lehnshurr. He never looked her in the eyes, and he still doesn’t, even now. 

Of course, she obviously takes a great deal of amusement in bothering him. If he’s going to so adamantly make his dislike known- as many people still do, due to the Hydra fiasco- she might as well give him a clear-cut reason, to focus his hate. Her eyes flash red, when she passes him in the corridor; she often stares at him for uncomfortable lengths of time, in the dining hall; and in training, she’s threatens to rifle through his mind so frequently that he now stays an insulting distance away. 

She smiles. “Charming, as always.”

“He says dances aren’t his thing.”

“Does he like anything?” 

“Absolutely not,” says Charles. “Anyway, do enjoy the rest of the night, both of you. Oh, and Wanda, I’m sure Miss Grey was looking for you, earlier...”

Her traitor heart flutters. She prays he didn’t notice, as he turns from them, leaving them to  socialise , or something equally as horrible. 

_**Knitting** _ , Xavier projects telepathically, then; Wanda jumps, with a startle. The voice is crisp and clear, as moves even further away, across the hall.  _**Erik loves to knit**_. 

Now  that is some quality ammunition. Maybe this stupid thing was worth the effort, after all. 

“What _was_ that? ” Asks Peter then, rather breathless.

“Charles? He’s harmless.”

“I felt like he was looking into my  _soul_ .”

“He probably was. C’mon!” 

All of her nerves appear to have fizzled away, and without warning she turns on her heel andstrides over to Blink, who she’s spotted in the corner; her hair and dress flutter madly in her wake. “I thought you hated it here!” Peter calls, just loud enough to catch, as he jogs after her. “I do!”

“Wanda!” Cries the other girl in delighted surprise, as the recognition processes visibly on her face. “You don’t look like you!”

“I don’t feel like me,” she says, tucking a soft curl behind her ear. “You look incredible!” 

Blink blushes, a shade of soft pink that somehow succeeds in making her eyes appear an even brighter shade of luminous green. “John spoke to his parents, behind my back. They bought me this stupid dress.” 

It’s almost as beautiful as the girl it frames: palest blue, embroidered with shimmering green willow branches, that twine about the bodice, like the delicate markings around her eyes. “I’m still mad about it, but it’s pretty, so...”

“The orphan pity pulled through this time?” 

Blink laughs, lightly. “Sure did,” she says. “So what form of torture did they use to get you here?” 

“The emotional kind.”

She pulls a face as if shes smelled something rancid, and Wanda nods in wholehearted agreement. 

“Pffft... you barely put up a fight,” chimes in Peter then, having caught up at last. 

“I  _ did _ .”

“Nah, you didn’t even try. You wanted to come here. Secretly.”

“You must be Peter!” exclaims Blink, before Wanda accidentally sears his eyebrows off with scarlet static; she holds up her palm, and he meets it in an enthusiastic high-five. Wanda can almost hear the cogs, whirring in his little brain. Blink knows his name, therefore Wanda has disclosed her private information to this girl, and therefore Blink is incredibly trustworthy. 

“Yup,” he affirms, “What kind of horrible things has Wanda told you about me?” 

“Oh not much,” Blink assures. “She’s been far too busy talking about Jean.”

Wanda rounds on Blink immediately. Immensely shocked and hurt by such a betrayal, she instantly revokes all of those nice things she’d said about Blink: she is most definitely  not trustworthy. 

“I have  _ not _ .”

“Oh tell me about it- that’s why I’m here. I’m sick of hearing about it, I’m going to ask her out on Wanda’s behalf of she doesn’t get round to it in the next hour.”

“You will not!” 

“Please! Spare us all! If only I knew where she’d gone...”

Blink spins around, attempting to peer over everyone’s heads like a meerkat. Her fancybraid whips around with the movement, at such a speed it’s fearful. 

“You know what?” Says Wanda. “You’re mean. I’m going to  _ socialise _ .”

“Oh that is one low blow. What’s gotten into her?”

“I think the makeup’s poisoned her brain...” Peter stage-whispers, as he chases after her... 

Perhaps the makeup truly has addled what little brains she has left after living with Clint Barton, for two years.Perhaps she’ll even dance, when the times comes. What has she got to lose?

“Hey!” She exclaims, dragging Peter by the arm over to the larger group of giggling girls. Wanda hasn’t made fast friends with many of them- she much prefers sitting in a corner with Blink, or preferably in absolute solitude, avoiding the startling childishness of the others, who are probably gossiping- but she likes Ororo. She’s almost intimidating, with her shock of white hair, and the lightning that leaps from her fingertips. Thor would surely love her.

“You look lovely!” Says Ororo, in the same kind of surprise that everyone seems to greet her with today.

“Thanks! I feel horrible, how do you do this?” 

“I don’t,” the other girl sighs, tugging at her skirt- almost black, but shifting a deep, rich purple as it hits the light- “Can you imagine how this would look in the middle of a hurricane?”

The two halves of her dress are disconnected, leaving a flash of solid abs poking through. She looks regal, as if she wouldn’t be out of place upon the throne of some faraway land. 

“Who’s your friend?” 

“This is Peter,” Wanda introduces. He waves, sheepishly. “He works with me and the Avengers.” She attempts to nudge him forwards, much to his dismay. 

“Hey,” he offers, to a chorus of greetings. “Nice place you got here.”

“It’s not bad,” says Psylocke.  _Betty?_ She has the right idea: she’s wearing a dark suit, her hair slicked back, a delicate silver chain hangs from her ear...

“You should see it on a normal day. There’s always something exploding.” Peter turns to meet Kitty, whose eyes possess a rather different glint today than Wanda has ever noticed.

“What’s your deal then, Parker?” Questions Ororo, not unkindly.

“My deal?”

“She means your abilities. Your mutation.”

“Are you another telepath?” Asks Kitty. “There’s like three on the planet, and we’ve collected them all.”

“You look Pyro,” chimes in Psylocke.

“Nah, I’m betting something intellectual. I’ve never seen you out on the field...”

“I’m in training,” Peter defends, joking. “No points for any of you, anyway.”

“So what is it then?”

There’s a second where Wanda half expects him to spin a complete lie, but he seems to trust these people. Maybe it’s because they’re super-powered, too.

“Strength,” he begins, “Healing, speed, agility, wallcrawling, and a sort of... precognition? I don’t think it has a name.”

Ororo let’s out a low whistle. 

“Oh, is that all?” 

“He’s being modest,” says Wanda. 

Peter laughs. 

“Says you.” 

It’s then that the speakers on the wall crackle into life with a buzz of static, and the music grows loud enough to drown out the chatter. “C’mon!” Calls Ororo, “Lets dance!” For a reason she can’t discern, Wanda lets herself be dragged over to the middle of the room, where everyone appears to have partnered up. She soon finds herself comfortably in Peter’s arms, who appears to have just about recovered from that interaction. 

The music lulls to a soft, romantic beat, and Peter mimes throwing up when she makes a kissy face in his direction. 

“When did you learn to dance?” 

Peter winks. And then promptly stomps on her toe. 

“May,” he admits. “I never really got the hang of it.”

With the added excitement of a few wrong steps, and a whole lot of giggling, Peter manages to twirl them both sufficiently around the dance floor. It’s a nice moment, as she relaxes into his strong, clumsy arms, and feels the soft tones of the music, carrying them both. 

The atmosphere is entirely unlike anything Wanda has ever experienced before, as she sways back and forth, intentionally stepping on Peter’s toes. The crackle of the speakers Hank has no doubt been meddling with, and the sparkly banner hung above the buffet- it feels very nostalgic, for something Wanda has never experienced before. It feels stupid, and carefree, and  _adolescent_ ...

It feels like a significant milestone in the childhood that has escaped her, for so long. 

She lets herself drop her guard, for a little while. She forgets about everything, just sways mindlessly, her roaring mind lapses into a rare, blissful moment of quiet. 

Only, it can’t last forever. 

Something suspicious alights in Peter’s eyes- and in a sudden move of upmost betrayal, he extends his arm, and lets Wanda go. 

She flounders in panic, for a second, caught out all alone. And then an exceedingly gentle arm comes to rest upon her shoulder, the other a ghost upon the small of her back. 

“Hey,” says Jean, in a half-whisper. 

She thinks she feels her brain short-circuit. 

Wanda’s heart flutters with a lurch of scarlet static, as their eyes meet; the points where Jean’s soft skin meets her own- the fingertips against her collarbone, brushing her elbow- they’re electrified. It takes a moment for her to grasp hold of the words she wishes to say, where all she can do is stand: lost in the ice of Jean’s eyes, the way they sparkle, in the light, the way her eyebrows arch, and the curve of her soft lips, painted dark...

It’s remarkable. Wanda Maximoff has never been lost for words before. A tiny, playful smirk curls the corner of Jean’s mouth. Wanda raises an eyebrow. 

“Hey,” she says, shifting her arm more firmly around the other girl’s waist. “You look... beautiful.”

Under the lights, Jeans’s cheeks flush, unmistakably; with something of a bashful smile, her entrancing gaze falls to the floor. When she summons the confidence to meet Wanda’s gaze next, she doesn’t appear to be able to control the way her eyes linger upon the delicate folds of Wanda’s dress, the pendant draped around her neck...

“You too,” says the other girl, somehow managing to stumble clumsily over her two short words. “I can’t believe you came.” 

“I wanted to see you. And, well, Stark made me this dress, and Clint emotionally blackmailed me, and Natasha brought out the threats...”

Jean laughs, a sound that ignites something warm and fuzzy, in Wanda’s chest. 

“It is a gorgeous dress.”

Compared to Jean’s gown, Wanda feels as if she could be wearing any old scrap of fabric. The girl at the end of her arms looks heavenly, almost otherworldly, with the lightest rose tulle flowing from her waste like a shimmering mist.Nestled above her right ear is a tiny spring of pearly flowers; Jean’s stunning eyes are coloured dusty pink, her freckles sprinkled faintly over her smooth, pale skin. 

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” Wanda admits, hoping it excuses her poor attempts at a slow dance, and the way her stare lingers, her breath catches.

“I figured. Me neither, unless you count a kindergarten disco. Where have you been hiding all night?”

“Peter wanted to socialise... you know how he is.”

Jean raises an eyebrow. “Oh did he?” 

“Yeah, I told him I’d rather die, but he just kept finding more people.” 

“That sounds  _ exactly _ like the Peter you told me about.”

She shrugs innocently. Jean laughs again. 

“You’re terrible at lying,” she says; Wanda feels the electrifying tickle of her fingertips, moving ever so slightly upwards, pulling them closer together. “You’re enjoying yourself, Wanda Maximoff, I know it.”

“So what if I am?” 

“You’re allowed to admit it, you know. You don’t have to hate everything...”

Their faces are barely inches apart now, as if they’ve gravitated towards one another.

“It’s my brand,” Wanda whispers, breathless.

“Nah, I don’t think it is. You’re soft, really.”

She smirks mischievously, and blinks- turning her eyes a brilliant, lurid, crimson, the way that she makes Sam squeal, and people back away in horror. For the second time tonight, though, the display doesn’t have its intended effect. Is she losing her touch?

Jean never looks away. She doesn’t even laugh. In challenge, she stares right back, the intensity smouldering... until vivid, amber sparks engulf the pale grey of her own eyes. The particles between them vibrate; a flash of scarlet, and yellow fire, crackling static, and embers...

“You don’t scare me,” she whispers; the flames dance and flicker entrancingly, casting strange, wispy shadows over her cheekbones.

Around them, the music swells. Everything: the other kids, swaying awkwardly, and Peter, trying to stare at them over his Kitty’s innocent shoulder, and the technicolour lights- it stretches out away from them, in a nonsensical, iridescent blur. In that moment, there is nothing at all in Wanda’s universe but Jean Grey leaning in towards her, Jean Grey, with her hands on her hips, and the red hair falling clumsily between them, and the thudding of their hearts in synchrony-

Jean Grey’s soft lips against her own.

Is this what heaven feels like?

“Hey, you two!”

The spell of the kiss shatters, and they break away from one another, grinning. Residual sparks of electricity leap the space between them.

“ _Hey!_ Can you put the furniture down?”

Huh?

Wanda spins around, to find fifty pares of eyes staring directly at the two of them... and all of the chairs and tables in the room telekinetically suspended five feet up in the air. There’s nothing at all she can do to contain the burst of hysterical joy that rises from her chest in that moment of ridiculous realisation; it enraptures Jean, too, and they both dissolve into peals of brilliant laughter, watching the furniture dance above the guests’ heads.

“Oh my god,” cries Jean, blushing furiously, as Wanda wipes a tear from her own cheek. “Oh my god.”

Simultaneously, they each raise a hand. Wanda focuses on pulling the scarlet gently back in, and Jean waves her fingers, directing the objects back to their rightful positions with ease. The room is restored to its grandeur once more with the soft  thump of wood upon tiles.

Wanda whirls back around to look at Jean, and when their eyes meet, they immediately break into another great fit of giggles. “Careful,” calls Peter, “You’ll probably blow us all up.”

“I’m sorry!” Jean says, once she’s managed to catch her breath, and quell the laughter. Wanda smooths her skirt, and stamps out a flicker of scarlet, that leaps from her fingertips.

“What  _was_ that?”

“Something magical,” says Peter, coming to stand at her side once more. She elbows him, but he dodges out of the way.

“You good?” Asks Jean, grinning, her hand still firmly on Wanda’s waist. 

And this time... _yeah_ , she really is. 

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know if you can tell, but I have no idea what an American prom is like I’ve only seen movies... but Charles is British, right?? So I’ve kind of mashed the two together, anyway...
> 
> Hope u enjoyed!! I rlly just wanted to write some cheesy fluff with my two favourite girls in pretty dresses (because my prom was cancelled and never happened) to forget about the end of the world. It’s really weird and scary for me rn. I hope ur all okay 
> 
> If I manage to get my life together, I have another one shot that’s about 4K rn, a chapter of my X-men fic, and of course.. the try being sixteen chapter. No promises, but I’ll try :) 
> 
> @Spellsofscarlet on tumblr!! I draw stuff and I talk to anyone come say hello! <3 <3


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